


the skies afire (with our history)

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [119]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Family Drama, Fourth of July, Gen, Letters, More tags to be added, POV First Person, POV Multiple, The great Poison Ivy Reckoning, Vacation, murmurs of familial dysfunction brewing, set in 1848, sometimes I need an Angband break, title from John Brehm's 'Fourth of July', we're one year out from duelling pistols here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-08-23 08:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20239435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: The great, epic, disastrous Fourth of July holiday, as told by three cousins.





	1. Finrod

My parents were married young, and I came along quite soon after. My father has told me more than once how I was the family olive branch—for though the rift between him and my grandfather was already healed (my grandfather having a generous heart and my father a warm devotion, uncooled by youthful ambition), there is nothing like a cooing babe for general peace.

I am alone in my room, sketching out another tortured attempt at a farewell letter, when Artanis knocks on my door.

“Grandfather is in the parlor,” she sighs, after I bid her enter.

“Why does that vex you?” I ask, hastily closing my journal and locking it. Maedhros gave it to me, this little leather-bound book, with a tiny sealing clasp of my uncle’s make.

_I know you love your secrets_, he said, smiling a mysterious smile of his own, and I protested, but was grateful nonetheless.

Artanis flings herself in the chair opposite me, in a manner rather unbecoming to one nearing her teens. I only smile; I am not her governess. An older brother is best beloved when he does not chide. “I _believe_,” she says, “That he has come to make us go on some—some _expedition_ with Uncle Feanor and all his horrid brood.”

Now, I must chide. “Artanis—Galadriel—our cousins are not horrid. They are simply…not like us.”

“They ought to be more like us. We are by far the most civilized _and_ interesting members of our family, excepting Grandfather and Grandmother.”

“I heard you call our brothers boorish blockheads just the other day,” I say, keeping my composure with difficulty. “But what is this expedition you speak of? And were you listening at the parlor door?”

“Of course I was.” Artanis snaps me a glance as if to say, _keep up, brother dear_. “Though Mama also had me fetch the tea things. She despairs of my carrying, or of my pouring, without being—clumsy.”

“Grace is sometimes learned.” Indeed, even I, who was something of a dandy (and may be still, I fear) have tripped over my own feet in my most beloved pursuits. Only the Feanorians—and at that, only some of _them_—seem blessed with faerie blood. And well may they be. They are more Irish than any of us.

“Finrod, you must be keen! Did you not hear me? Father is going to agree, and then what shall we do? Be shoved off to Botany Bay with _Celegorm_?”

Artanis has been reading too much.

“What, exactly, did Grandfather have to say?”

“I did not hear _that_ part. Only something about—Coney Island.”

_That_ clears my mind. Fingon and I were speaking of it recently—how we might coax Maedhros and Maglor to visit us before fall and winter chill set in, and how, by carriage, we might follow the footsteps of fashionable vacationers, and spend a few days frolicking upon the sands. Such pastimes have always held charm for my eldest cousin, but equally does he feel loath to be away from home, in summer.

Or _did_, I remind myself. His dalliance with Esther Landau has changed him.

(I caught them last month, before his return to Formenos. My cousin’s great height and her petite stature were made immaterial by their ingenious use of our sitting room’s high windowsill. Maedhros, with his hands still in her hair, turned half around to say, _Egads, Finrod, I thought you were Fingon—thanks be, for he would be properly scandalized_, and I laughed and slipped away.)

(I am delighted, to see my cousin so happy.)

“Coney Island, Father?”

Father has his hands steepled beneath his chin as if praying. He looks almost grave enough to be Uncle Fingolfin, just for a moment, but upon seeing me, his brow clears of its clouds. “Eldest, light of my heart,” he says gaily. “Have you been over-listening?”

“I have my sources,” I answer, with feigned obfuscation. We both know it is only Artanis who presses her ear to keyholes. “Is Grandfather not staying to dinner?”

“No, he is off to visit your uncle,” Father says. He sits down on the sofa and gestures for me to join him. “He has hit upon a plan…for harmony.”

“We shall all holiday together, is that it?”

We exchange a glance: eloquent, longsuffering. Then Father laughs. “We _shall_ share the enjoyments of the seashore, yes.” More solemnly, he adds, “Independence Day is nearly upon us, and you know how much Grandfather cherishes its particular meaning, in his own life and as a boon to our family’s prosperity. But more than that, this is a year of particular joy for him and Grandmother. They have been married for forty years, come August.”

I have not my brother Angrod’s love of dates and numbers, but I do know the date of this anniversary—the tenth of August—because it is always a day of bittersweet celebration. It is one occasion at which we can be certain _not_ to see our Feanorian cousins.

“Do you think Grandfather wishes to…” _Force_ seems too strong a word. “Compel unity in such a way?”

“No, no.” My father rests his elbow on the ridged spine of the sofa, and rests his cheek against his hand, almost like a schoolboy lost in daydreams. He always looks young to me. “I think instead that he wishes to—advance a new tradition, one that includes all of us, and that is bound to our country, our _home_, as well our relations. So he said to me. You see he was quite—inspired, by this July the Fourth.”

It is like dear Grandfather Finwe, to find deep meaning in a day, or even an hour. It is even more like him to supply a ready story to a legendless epoch. Our next generation is growing up; the letters in my desk confirm it, if only my father knew.

Grandfather Finwe does not know, either, but he has a keen sense for such things. 


	2. Maglor

“This is a colossally dreadful idea,” I say, and for once, even Celegorm is inclined to agree with me.

“An absolute shit-gobbed nightmare.”

“Mouth,” Maedhros says mildly. The twins are having a dramatic battle in the loft nearby, and have ears as sharp as fox kits’.

We—the two eldest, and Celegorm and Caranthir, are loitering in the part of the barn that used to be a stable, cat-cornered to the haymow. Athair built a new stable the summer after he came back, but this place boasts low, open beams, from which Maedhros and Celegorm like to swing and do acrobatics. The twins are eager to ape these antics, and are allowed to, as long as Maedhros stands nearby with arms outstretched to catch them if they fall.

At present, Celegorm is pulling himself up like a sailor dragging his head above water. Maedhros is sitting on the old horse blanket beside me, writing a love letter. At least, I think it must be a love letter, for he shied away from me when I tried to tie his hair back from his face. Maedhros is not usually clandestine about his correspondence.

It is June, nearly the end of it—Athair’s birthday was last week. The subject of my current shock and distress is something proposed in this morning’s post by Grandfather Finwe, whom I love very much but do not always understand.

“It shall not be so bad,” Maedhros says, with the maddening wisdom he mastered at ten and still employs at twenty. “We shall all be glad to see the sea..._mamaí_ especially. She has not visited it—properly—in many years.”

“You just want to see Fingon,” Celegorm grumbles.

Maedhros pretends not to hear him. Caranthir, who has been lying silently on his belly beside the ancient saddles, makes a sound halfway between a growl and a grunt.

“Why is Athair not opposed to going?” I demand.

“Why should he be?” That is Curufin, coming to join us at last. Curufin is twelve, peaky and prickly. I find him endlessly exasperating, but Athair is perhaps fonder of him than any of us. This must sting Maedhros—ought not the eldest be the favorite? But Maedhros always says we must be patient.

I will not be trapped by Curufin’s infernal questions. The boy’s first word was _why_.

Celegorm takes the bait, though. “Because we shall be cooped up with our ridiculous relations for half a week. That’s why.”

“Athair is the eldest,” Curufin says. It’s a refrain that we have heard all our life, and it vexes me that he acts like he must teach it to us. “_He _is not the one who should have to stay at home, if people want to be disagreeable.”

“So we should always cater to the whims of the eldest?” I parry, for Maedhros’s benefit. Curufin’s expression sours, and Maedhros, with a soft rebuke of his brows and mouth, makes me wish I had not spoken.

“Imagine,” Athair crows, that night at supper, “How it will be to see Fingolfin and Finarfin attempting to find comfort in wilderness!”

“Coney Island is not exactly wilderness,” Mother reminds him, carving a slice of white meat to slip onto Maedhros’s plate.

Athair waves a hand. “Depend upon it, my dear, I quashed _that_ idea in the first paragraph of my reply. No, we shall not visit trampled-over ground and squeeze in among the rabble. Ever since the ferry line to Norton’s Point was built it has been hopeless. I propose that we travel in further—north of Smithtown there is dense barrier of brush along the water’s edge. It is there that I propose we make our camp.”

“In the middle of the brush?” Caranthir asks skeptically. For one who does not speak often, I wonder why he chooses times like this to make himself heard.

Athair glowers at him, ignores him, and resumes his explanation. “The water above that beach is quieter, Nerdanel, for all it used to be called the Devil’s Belt.”

“Why was it called the Devil’s Belt?” asks Curufin. Likely he wants to spin a yarn to frighten the twins with on our journey.

“No doubt because of its proximity to Fort Salonga, post of the British,” Athair replies, draining his glass of wine. In the summer, Athair and Mother and Maedhros and I drink chilled wine made from our various fruits. Maedhros enjoys it greatly, as he enjoys all such things. I think he likes drink better than food.

I do not need to wonder what Mother will say to this new plan, for I can already see her surrender in the set of her shoulders. “Very well,” she says. “We will see what your father says.”

And that settles it, for Grandfather Finwe always does as Athair asks.

_Almost_ always.

We travel as we always do, by carriage and horses. Since the ride is long, we will spend the night at Valinor Park and then change riders—that is, Celegorm and me—for the remainder of the journey. It is strange to approach the city with all our family; this happens but rarely. Maedhros, riding beside me, is very cheerful.

“Do you really think it will go well?” I ask, when our voices may be lost in the rattle of the wheels and Athair is a few paces ahead.

“You worry too much, Macalaure,” he says, with his sweetest smile, and I am left to wonder if I am the only one who sees the fraying edges of our family tapestry.

That seems a poet’s lot, a minstrel’s lot, and I admit I like to fancy myself both of these things.

“Of course I _hope_ it will go well,” I retort, in a tone that might be a little petulant if I was not eighteen and full a man. “I only question the wisdom of putting…Turgon and Celegorm together, on a stretch of sand, for four days.”

Maedhros’s smile does not falter. “I shall maintain the peace.”


	3. Fingon

Turgon does not say so, but I know he thinks I am to blame. Not for any particular action of mine, mind you, but for where my sympathies lie. We are sitting outside the parlor together; he is looking at with me with our father’s disapproving face, and I set my shoulders and my jaw as if I do not care for his disdain.

As if, though exasperating, it cannot so much as touch me.

Our parents are not quarrelling, because our parents do not quarrel, but there is an unhappy tension in the house. It has reigned over us with storm-cloud efficiency ever since Grandfather came and went away again. Almost as soon as the door was shut behind him, Father tugged at his neat hair with his hands.

“I disliked this plan from the start,” he said sharply, then checked himself, as he always did, when he spoke ill—or near to it—of our family.

Grandfather told us last week that he wished to rent a waterside house at Coney Island for Independence Day. We_ were _keen on it, as Coney Island is beginning to be all the rage (as a destination) among our city friends. He said he would do this in especial celebration of our family’s freedom—Grandfather is something of a hero of the last war—and that there would be enough room for all of us.

I admit I said a few prayers that God might soften Uncle Feanor’s neck and heart to the idea, for though I love the Felagunds dearly, what is a holiday without Maedhros? What is _any_ celebration, without Maedhros?

Turgon did not hear my prayers, since I said them silently. We still, to my utter chagrin, share a room...though I stay more often than ever with Doctor Olorin, now that I am his apprentice and aide.

Since the beginning of summer, I have had a little room there, at his rented place on Whitehall Street. It is packed top to bottom with bottles and basins and books, but it has also been fitted out with a cot, for times when I stay late and am overburdened with treatises. There are so many treatises to be wise of, and I say this even though I am but a month or so into my studies with him.

Father made me wait until I was seventeen, to accompany Olorin, and only _then_ when I had promised to resume lectures come autumn.

I am eager to speak with Maedhros again, for I have been thinking about the lectures and how long I ought to continue them. Father exerted his considerable influence in finding me a seat so young—I was only sixteen! I don’t wish to throw that in his face; truly I don’t.

I also wish that Uncle Feanor had not thrown Grandfather’s plan in _our_ faces. I will not own as much to Turgon, who is already sour, but I know that dispensing with the relative comforts of Coney Island, exchanging them for tents on a wilderland shore—_that_ is my uncle’s doing.

The source of the almost-quarrel is this: Mama has said she will not go, but that we ought to. Even in summer, her health is delicate. A trip to the seaside might do wonders for her, she said last week.

But, with this changed plan, no one can expect her to sleep on the ground or trek through brush.

Father is very angry, in his own way. He will not say at whom. If I—but I could never be angry at Maedhros, never.

Argon remains behind with Mama, very willingly.

“He loves to be pampered,”Aredhel says scornfully, as the carriage rolls along. We shall meet the rest of the family (save Grandmother) at a stable about an hour from here, and we shall travel from there on foot.

“We are close,” Father says, rather than answer Aredhel’s remark, which was made in response to some observation of Turgon’s.

I wish my mother could have shared in our enjoyment, of course, but with harmony restored—oh, I shall be glad to see my cousins again, to feel the sand under our feet and to frolic in free air. I think I will almost be glad to see even Celegorm, who is nearly sixteen and generally a thorn in my side.

When last I saw him, we visited my uncle’s to dance and make merry. Celegorm was quite friendly to me, in his eagerness to show off a litter of puppies.

I must hide the pleasure of memory on my face; I am the only one of my family who had a splendid time, during that visit.

We are not dressed in dancing garb today. We are in our oldest shirts and trousers—and Aredhel, unwillingly, in her oldest dress. She is not opposed to looking shabby; rather, she thought she might try her luck convincing Father to let her borrow clothes from Turgon.

“There won’t be any ladies,” she said, in her most coaxing tone. Aredhel—much as I love her—was not made for coaxing.

Father stared at her with a furrow between his straight dark brows. He was already tired, I realized with a pang, and we were not yet on the road. “Aredhel, the absence of ladies is all the more reason for you to dress like one.”

I am the eldest. I must not let my sympathies get the better of me. But is it such a terrible thing, to want to be happy? Maedhros—Maitimo—would tell me it is not.

“Father,” I say now, trying to keep the joy behind my lips and eyes, “Are you—”

But the carriage jolts to a halt, and Aredhel, as excited as I am, is already shaking the catch on the door. Turgon groans, and Father reaches for straw boater hat that will look as out of place on his head as it does on his knee.

We are here, we are _here_.


	4. Finrod

We arrive at the meeting point sooner than either of my uncles.

“I don’t know,” Artanis says smugly, “Whether the Feanorians wanted to be first or last, but _I _choose to see this as a victory. We beat them.”

“My dear,” our mother chides. “Come now. That is no mood in which to greet your cousins.”

That, of course, is exactly the mood in which my sister means to greet our cousins.

I can smell the salt air from where we stand, so much stronger and cleaner than what makes its way to the city. Manhattan may be an island, but it has lost its island freedom.

It would be easier on my conscience to pretend that I have not made up my mind yet about my own freedom, but—I have. My father’s father forgave him for his youthful choices. I know mine will forgive me.

(I trust.)

As if summoned by my thoughts, and by my family’s anticipation, the Feanorians arrive, with Grandfather accompanying them in their carriage. They stayed in the city last night, I believe, but we were too busy packing our things to see them.

When they tumble out, they look much as they do at Formenos—ragtag and reckless and utterly confident.

Aunt Nerdanel oversees the descent of a vast picnic hamper before she comes to greet us. Her dress is faded—I think the stripes were once blue—but her face is bright above it. “Earwen! Finarfin! My dears, how are you all?”

My uncle glowers. “What is that basket, Nerdanel?” he demands, without saying a word to any of us. 

“Luncheon, and supper,” she says breezily. “As much as could be fit.”

“But I thought we were going to fish and forage,” he parries, in a low, tense tone. His sons are waiting silently for their parents to lead. When they are all together like this, it is enough to make one wonder if their friendliness is provisional—a thing agreed-to, at certain times, rather than natural and easy. I can see Celegorm, at least, staring at the horses, probably preferring their company to that of his relations.

“Your father and I agreed that such a plan would not produce near enough to keep us happy,” my aunt tells him, and as if to close a chapter, she steps forward to embrace us. We open our arms to her. How could we not? Aunt Nerdanel is easy to love, and she hugs us tightly all the way down to Artanis.

“All so fair!” she exclaims. “Earwen, I hope you brought broad hats.”

My mother assures her that she did, and the tension is eased by cheerful conversation that rolls in like the very waves we seek. My father coaxes Uncle Feanor into better humor in his light, self-deprecating way—a method I try to practice, lest I grow too proud—and even the sunshine overhead seems brightened when my grandfather, who was taking a little time to gather his things from the carriage, joins us. Maedhros helped him down the steep step, and it is Maedhros whom I most want to see.

I must greet Grandfather first though, and I rejoice to do it. He clasps my face in his hands and kisses my forehead as if I were a little boy, as if I did not see him less than a week ago. What a spectacle we must make, gathering in this carriage-lot behind a clapboard hotel! This place is near-deserted, but what passersby there are have given us odd stares.

“You are a spot of sunshine in this dusty round,” Grandfather says, then releases me to my eldest cousin, at last.

“Maedhros!” I cry, very cheery, caring not for strangers, and I throw an arm around his shoulders. He smiles but does not laugh, as he usually does in his greetings. When I draw back, I see that his eyes are a little bleary and tired. That is the trouble with him, I have but recently discovered: he is so handsome and good-spirited that he hides exhaustion well.

“Finrod,” he answers. “I declare I have not seen you so rustically dressed since…oh, I cannot say when it was. Do you not think so, Maglor? Here is a regular explorer—a sailor, perhaps, ready for circumnavigation.”

Skillfully thus, he diverts my attention before I can inquire what has made him pale and peaked. Maglor, who has no great love for outdoor ventures, joins us with a gloomy look.

“Hullo, Finrod,” he says. “You look…shabby. Properly so.”

“Maglor had rather the worst of the carriage ride,” Maedhros confides in me. “It was Celegorm’s day to ride horseback today.”

“Squashed between Caranthir and Curufin,” Maglor explains, with a languid gesture. “Good Lord, the sun is hot.”

“Just wait until you’re in the water.”

“And burning like a crisp?”

“I have half a mind to bury myself in the sand and wait until dark,” I say, chuckling. “I hope at least that there is _some_ umbrage. It is only morning, yet, but the air is very warm.”

Maedhros has a wide straw hat in his hand, and he sets it gently atop Maglor’s dark hair.

“There,” he says. “Does that comfort you?”

Maglor is slightly mollified. “How much longer ‘til Fingon and their lot is here?” he asks, in an undertone. “Athair won’t like it if they’re late.”

“As a point of fact,_ you_ were late,” Artanis says, slipping under my elbow and fixing her wide grey eyes on our cousins in what I fear is judgment and provocation. “_We _were early.”

Maglor opens his mouth—I know he is not above arguing with a child—but Maedhros sketches a bow.

“Your point is well-taken, Artanis—or is it Galadriel, now?”

“Galadriel,” she says, nodding, and I see that he has softened her.

Sure enough, Uncle Feanor _is_ protesting the lateness of our remaining family, but he has not time to protest long, for I see their carriage approaching in the distance.


	5. Maglor

When I see the sea, I always want to weep.

Today, embattled by the tangled razor-webs of my own family, I ought to be careful of showing my heart. We are making camp amid the shifting sand, and my brothers and cousins mingle their shouts with the gulls’. Grandfather sits beneath an open-sided canopy, talking merrily with Aunt Earwen. Athair and my uncles busy themselves with erecting the other tents. There is talk of swimming, and castle-building, and perhaps of fishing—Athair is keen to test Uncle Fingolfin’s skill—yet I stand apart from it all. I ought to be careful, but how powerless I feel when the waves—even slow and soft, as they are on this northern shore—resound in endless song!

I must set this murmur, somehow, to music. It would be suited to my harp, I think, the best.

“Maglor!”

I start from my reverie, and there is Amrod, and Amras with him, both already rosy and sandy though we have been here scarcely a quarter of an hour.

“What?” I ask, piqued. I do not like to be interrupted when I am listening to the siren-murmur of inspiration. They _know_ this.

“_Ya_!” Amrod shrieks, and the next thing I know, something slimy strikes me limply across the face. It _sticks_ there.

I do not _shriek_, exactly, but I make a sound that I never would have wished to make in the presence of my parents, my brothers, and certainly Uncle Fingolfin. Athair will kill me, is my first conscious thought.

Athair will kill me, for shaming him so.

I claw at my face until helping hands, steadier than mine, come to my aid. “Macalaure, Macalaure,” Maedhros says, peeling whatever horrid thing _it_ is from my cheek. “It is naught but a bit of seaweed.”

I am eighteen years old. I am—

“I will strangle you,” I hiss at Amrod, before I realize that he isn’t laughing anymore. Instead, he and Amras look rather nervous.

“Boys,” Maedhros says, very quietly, but in a tone I would quail from were it directed at me. “What have you to say for yourselves?”

“It was a joke,” Amrod mumbles.

“Curufin—” Amras begins, but Maedhros holds up a hand. I am dimly aware that half of our cousins are pretending not to listen. Athair is fortunately out of hearing. I hope he stays where he is.

“You are old enough to know what is right,” Maedhros says. “Whether Curufin tells you otherwise or not.”

Curufin _is _listening, I can tell, but he does not so much as scoff. His eyebrows are frozen in dark peaks.

“I am alright,” I say quickly, if only to stop Maedhros from being so grim with the twins, who look ready to cry themselves.

We are a family of weeping, I sometimes fear.

“I’m sorry, Maglor,” they say, very penitently, and I nod.

“Don’t do it again.”

Athair has caught sight of our little knot of commotion, and is coming towards us. Abruptly, Maedhros turns and walks away, down the long arm of the beach.

I slip away, too, before Athair can pin me down for questioning, and nearly crash into Fingon.

“Where is he going?” His worried gaze follows Maedhros.

“The Ambarussa have vexed him,” I say. If Fingon did not observe the spectacle of my seaweed encounter, I shall not enlighten him.

“Should I…” Fingon pauses uncertainly.

Of course Fingon should follow him, but I do not want to say it. We are, in this moment, trapped in a contest Fingon does not realize exists. Maedhros will always be cheered by Fingon, and I will always wonder accordingly if I am but second-best. “Let us go to him together,” I suggest.

There is, as Athair predicted, a good deal of brush sheltering the coves and sand dunes. We find Maedhros sitting with his arms around his knees beneath a bush of spiny beach-rose. His face is turned towards the water.

“Maitimo,” Fingon says, using the name that belongs to us—and to him, because Maedhros said it did—“Are you well?”

“I must always be well,” Maedhros answers calmly. He squints up at Fingon, his straight nose scrunching a little. “_Cano_—both _canos_—come to see if I have stormed off in high dudgeon.”

“I don’t know what happened, exactly,” Fingon says carefully. “I just—”

“Everything is alright, really.” I feel uneasy, as if it is my fault that Curufin told Amrod to sling a length of kelp at me.

“I am in need a of a little sleep, perhaps,” Maedhros says. “It has made me impatient. Forgive me.”

I am not going to divulge as much in front of Fingon, but what has made _me_ edgy and impatient is the knowledge that Athair is planning to set up any number of traps by which he may make his half-brothers—Fingolfin especially—appear ridiculous in front of Grandfather Finwe.

I do not understand why this must be his sport.

“Nothing to forgive,” Fingon says eagerly. “Can we sit down with you?”

Maedhros smiles. “Of course.”

We sit in silence for a little while, though I can tell Fingon has something he wants to say. Fingon was not made for silence.

Neither, I suppose, was I.

“There you are!” Finrod cries, coming round the corner of our little sandy nook. “Am I feel to shunned by my own comrades?”

“Certainly not,” Maedhros assures him, bidding him sit also. “We were merely escaping the hubbub, for a moment.”

During the journey, Maedhros promised me he would keep the peace. There was a lightness about him, just yesterday, that I cannot find now. I know that he slipped out last night—I heard the door of his room opening and closing softly down the hall, since I myself was awake—but I do not know where he went.

What errand could lower his spirits so?

The sea keeps whispering, though, and I allow it to comfort me. Yes, it comforts me as well as moves me.


	6. Fingon

I wish our spirits were higher.

Aunt Nerdanel and Aunt Earwen brought “a great deal of victuals,” as Grandfather observes in a charmed tone, and I, too, have nothing to complain of on that score. We roast sausages over the flames until the skins crisp up and crackle. Loaves of bread are sliced and passed. Summer tomatoes are slivered and sprinkled with herbs. Celegorm swears he will gorge himself on ripe melon, and from my point of observation, he does.

Celegorm is back to his old tricks, with me. The few times we have been in each other’s company this day, he has either stolidly ignored me, or, when we were all out swimming, attacked me from behind and dragged me beneath a wave.

I must not hate him.

I must not hate him, because I do not wish to have a heart for hatred—especially not when it comes to my family. And even more than that, I look at my father, who does not seem at all like a man on holiday.

I would not add to his burdens, not fickly.

Despite my brush with Celegorm, the hours we spent in the water were more pleasant than what is brewing among us all now. We are finishing our suppers and Uncle Feanor is sneering at nothing in particular. I imagine him as a volcano, always hotly angry beneath the surface no matter how many years pass.

“Do you want a little more bread, Fingon?” Maedhros asks, close by. “I barely saw you take any.”

“Oh—” I reach into the wicker basket, which, I have heard from three different Feanorians, was woven by their mother. “Thank you, Maitimo.”

“I think you are a little sunburned,” Maedhros says, reaching up to tap my nose with his finger. “But not so badly as poor Aegnor.”

Aegnor has not ceased his grumbling since we dried off in the bath-sheets Aunt Earwen brought. His face is a bit lobstered.

“I shall feel the pain of it tomorrow,” I say. “But—” and I am eager to share this, but not with everyone, “I brought a concoction for burns that Olorin taught me to make. It has the gel of aloe plants and is most soothing on the skin.”

“We bring the fire and you bring the balm,” Maedhros muses, though I do not take his meaning. Neither does Finrod, beside me, who chimes in,

“What is this fire, cousin?”

“Oh.” Maedhros grins. “Celegorm brought rockets.”

Celegorm’s head snaps up at the mention of his name. “What are you saying?” he demands, across the circle.

I see Maedhros’s eyes go to his father before he answers. Uncle Feanor _is_ listening, it seems, but Maedhros continues anyway. “I was just telling Fingon and Finrod of our spectaculars.”

“Hush,” says my uncle. “You ought not have spoiled the suspense.”

“Nevermind that,” Aunt Nerdanel counters. “They shall bring enough excitement as it is.”

“And we shall not have them _yet_,” Uncle Feanor concedes. “I have something else in mind—a real way to honor the occasion. Are we not gathered, after all, to celebrate a war?”

Grandfather Finwe, flanked by the Ambarussa and Artanis, laughs benevolently. “Oh, my boy. More the transcendence of one, I should say.”

Maedhros is quiet. My father is quiet too. He is with Uncle Finarfin and Aunt Earwen, and I do not recall hearing his voice rise and fall as much as the others’.

“Be that as it may, Athair,” Uncle Feanor says, using the name that he calls Grandfather by, and the name by which his sons call him, “I think a few friendly matches are in order.”

“Matches?” Aunt Nerdanel pauses in scrubbing at a spot on Curufin’s unwilling face. “What sort of matches?”

“Wrestling!” My uncle’s teeth gleam bright in the flame-glow. “The sand is very soft my dear, no one shall be hurt.”

There is excited chattering from the younger Feanorians, and yes, Aredhel and Artanis, who are rather bloodthirsty for young girls. Angrod and Aegnor are not particularly violent by nature, and Turgon would rather be reading a book than be here at all.

Would I? I know only that I do not want to fight my brothers or my cousins.

I see my father’s hand flit up to his forehead, rubbing at some furrow that I cannot see from here.

“That sounds a little boisterous—everyone is so very tired,” Grandfather interjects, sipping at his flask, but as he speaks, Celegorm is quick to interrupt,

“I’ll do it!” and then Curufin and the Ambarussa take up the cry, and we all learn (though we knew already) that their four voices are capable of making more noise than is reasonable.

“Excellent,” my uncle applauds. “Now, Maedhros, stand up. You are our best fighter. But who will match you? Fingon is so much…shorter. Say—are my brothers too fearful to think of fighting? Fingon may have the French height, but not so his—”

“I shall happily be wrestled into the ground,” Uncle Finarfin announces, standing and beaming. He wears the same effortless calm that Finrod does like a coat or a plumed cap—something that would be suspect or outré on anyone else, but that is a natural part of his being. Of course, Finrod inherited it from him. 

Uncle Feanor frowns.

Beside me, Maedhros stands. His sigh is so quiet, I wonder if even if _I_ heard it aright.

(The happiest hours of this day are not those that we spent swimming. Rather, I was content to sit beside my cousins by the tangle of beach-rose. At first Maedhros seemed grave and I was restless, eager to ask a question only his advice would calm. But then I realized: it was not the time for that, for my worries and woes. I made him laugh, and so did Finrod, and Maglor sang for us at last, and we whiled away a few golden moments with the rest of our families none the wiser.)

“Begin,” Uncle Feanor commands.


	7. Finrod

Sometimes, I long to ask Maedhros if he ever hates his father.

First, let me amend: I know that he loves him more than anyone in the world—a truth that may pain some of his brothers, but which has no right to pain me. I do not doubt that love, but I am curious if love and hate can blossom together in the same heart.

Sometimes Uncle Feanor does hateful things.

Still, I will never ask my cousin this question. I will never seek to sate this keen-edged curiosity of mine. To control our impulse for inquiry, to turn it only to good things, is one of the earliest lessons my father taught me.

(Celegorm and Uncle Feanor discharge the rockets against the selkie blackness of sea and sky.

They burn in gem colors, raining sparks.)

Father told me once that, when he was very young, he wanted to know what had caused such a lasting quarrel between his brothers. Father always thinks of them both as brothers, refusing to diminish Uncle Feanor or himself by the epithet of _half_.

_I realized_, he said to me very solemnly, _that to have my questions answered would only cause Fingolfin pain_.

Maedhros bested my father easily at wrestling, and my father laughed merrily as he lay upon the sand. I could not see my cousin’s face. I noticed, though, that he did not watch the other matches eagerly, even as Celegorm and Curufin beat my own brothers handily. Poor Angrod and Aegnor. We are not fighters, in my house.

Now, we are lying beneath the stars, Maedhros and Fingon and I. Maglor will join us in a moment; he is saying goodnight to Aunt Nerdanel, who stays with Uncle Feanor and the rest of their sons in one of the tents.

Maedhros has his arms behind his head. He is very quiet. Fingon has settled down at last, after ensuring that the old quilts we dragged out with us are spread broadly enough to protect against the sand.

I want to ask Maedhros a terrible question over a foolish thing. Is it because I was disturbed to see my father fall beneath him, in red firelight, while Uncle Feanor smiled?

Or is it because the letters in my desk are ones that say farewell?

I want to leave my father, though I do not hate him.

Maedhros would never leave Feanor, whether he hates him or not.

(_Oh_, Fingon breathes, when the first rocket crested and burst. _You ought to write a poem about this, Maglor_.

_That isn’t how poetry works, cousin_, Maglor answers, in a superior tone, and I exchange a glance with Maedhros that, though silent, is as good as laughter.)

“We shall be eaten alive by mosquitoes,” Maglor grouses, swathing himself in a linen overshirt.

“You needn’t stay,” Fingon mutters, but Maedhros says,

“Here, wrap your head in a shawl. It will help.”

Maglor festoons his head like an old Russian woman and we all laugh. I half-expect him to be offended, but he isn’t, and I breathe deep in my chest.

This is all Fingon ever wants, I know. For us to be happy and in harmony. He thinks he has ambitions, but his heart lies with family. I always thought mine did too, even while I spent my youth growing out of shy childhood, even as I spent the beginnings of manhood taking up interests and causes like stones in need of setting.

I cast them aside, and now I want to leave. I am not a leader, like Maedhros, and I have not the home-heart that Fingon does. Maybe Maglor and I _are_ the most alike—wanting to pursue, rather than to plant our feet, but he has talent that surpasses my dalliances with art.

“Do you remember,” Maedhros says suddenly, “The day of Argon’s christening?”

“It was the day Fingon stopped growing,” Maglor quips, and Fingon punches him lightly on the shoulder, though he has to reach over Maedhros to do it, so there is a tangle of limbs for a moment that threatens to wake the whole camp.

“Lay off, you two,” Maedhros says. “Anyhow, do you remember? Grandfather took us all aside—the four of us—and said that we would all be the men of our houses, someday.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine. So you were six, Fingon. Maglor seven, Finrod, eight. Perhaps it was a little premature.”

“Why would we both be men of our house?” Maglor asks, bemused. “Or did he not wish to exclude me?”

“No one would ever wish to exclude you, _cano_. He must have made special exception.”

“I do remember that,” I say. I remember how grave Fingon was, since he was the eldest brother of the baptized boy, and when Grandfather drew us aside to speak to us, I wondered if it would be to suggest that we distract Fingon with some gentle game.

Instead, he spoke to us of responsibility.

“What made you think of that now, Maitimo?” Fingon asks.

“I always think of it when we four are together,” Maedhros says, sitting up abruptly and drawing his quilt around his shoulders. Fingon makes a sound, likely pertaining to the sand. “Perhaps I think of it more because we are so close to the edge of the world here, and yet, our families are just behind us.”

“Ah yes, how harmonious,” Maglor mumbles. “With Athair directing us to pummel each other into the earth.”

There is a little uncomfortable silence. Maedhros’s silhouette is still, a darker outline against the winking sky.

“Maybe that was Grandfather’s point,” Fingon says, speaking more clearly than he did a moment ago, as if weariness has been shaken from him. “Even if our fathers do not always see…things quite the same, _we_ may.”

“Exactly so,” Maedhros says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

“I shall see anything you like,” Maglor says. “In the morning.”

With that, we all lie down to find our sleep.


	8. Maglor

Forever after, I shall think of this as Celegorm’s fault.

Our second day at the coast begins pleasantly enough. I was not mauled by flying insects in the night, as I’d feared, and Mother and Aunt Earwen are frying enough sausages to feed an army.

Athair still wants to fish. I wonder if he knows, as Maedhros once told me, that Uncle Fingolfin learned how to fish from Aunt Earwen’s family—Swedes who live near the Mississippi River. I imagine he is very skilled at it, but I let _that_ thought go no further, since it could be called mutiny.

We eat the sausages and a boiled egg each, and drink water that Athair has purified. Then Grandfather Finwe suggests that we cousins ought to go exploring.

“For,” he says, “Who can be sure when this land, too, shall be taken over by eager builders? In all my time in America, I have been shocked by nothing more than its constant and insatiable development.”

“There is much land that might still be claimed,” Athair reminds him, and then they fall to talking of all those who are traveling farther and farther west. Grandfather seems to think this too risky a venture, and avers that he does not find development to be an ill.

“Think of what good we can still do among the thirteen original colonies,” he says, shaking his grey head. “The good we _must_ do in New York alone.”

I follow Maedhros and Finrod away from the camp, and the voices behind us drift out of hearing, muddled by the waves.

I begin to think of music again.

Of course, we are not alone this morning, as we were last night. The four of us—for here, too, is Fingon—have a trail of taggers-on. The twins, and Artanis, and yes, that is Caranthir, pretending not to care what we are doing. Angrod and Aegnor are stalking the gulls, so we need not truck with them. Celegorm and Aredhel and Curufin are missing, too; I suppose that means they are together.

But, you see—

I have forgotten about Turgon.

“Oh, good Jesus, Celegorm,” comes Aredhel’s voice, from around a sand-dune. “Go and tell him to get out of it. You’ve gone too far this time.”

If Maedhros were her older brother, he would not stiffen head to foot as Fingon does.

“Aredhel!” Fingon cries. “What sort of language is that! If Father hears you—”

“Run!” shouts Celegorm, but they go the wrong way and nearly crash into us. They do not look penitent in the least; I recognize that devilish look on my brother’s face, and my cousin is no more innocent.

“What have you two been doing?” Fingon cries, and Celegorm tilts his chin stubbornly upward.

“My, my, Fingon. Keep being such a hen and you’ll sprout feathers.”

Maedhros’s hand moves swiftly to Fingon’s shoulder.

“Celegorm,” says Maedhros. “Tell me.”

“Nothing.” Celegorm says. “Really, Maitimo. Turgon just wanted somewhere quiet to read.”

“I’ll go and fetch him,” Aredhel murmurs, flushing a bit. She tries to slip past us, but Maedhros blocks her path with his other arm.

“Why don’t you show us?”

What we find is this: Turgon, contentedly sprawled on his stomach, propping up his chin with his elbows, a water-dampened book spread out before him.

“Oh, _Christ_,” Maedhros says, though I don’t at once perceive the trouble. Fingon does not chide him for taking the Lord’s name in vain. “Turgon, get up. Get up at once!”

“Poison ivy,” Maedhros explains quietly, to Uncle Fingolfin. “Fingon may correct me if I am wrong, but I think the best way to treat it is with soap and cold water. I don’t know if salt-water is quite the thing.”

“Turgon,” Mother is saying, while Turgon screws his face up in a valiant effort not to cry. “You must not touch your chest or neck until we have found something to scrub off. That could spread the poison, I have found.”

I have no especial love for this cousin, but I _am_ sorry for him. Celegorm is slinking about and, if the set of Mother’s shoulders is any indication, may have his ears boxed later. 

Uncle Fingolfin pinches his brow. He does not get angry like Athair does, in an impressive storm. He looks flustered and tired instead.

The cousins have all returned with us, and are standing in a tight knot. There is silence, even among the littler ones. Any thought of exploring is gone.

My gaze flits to Athair, to see what he thinks, to see if _he_ will punish Celegorm.

He is biting his lips. I think—

I think he wants to _laugh_.

“Feanor, have you more water purified?” Mother asks, and that is when Athair cannot hold back any longer.

“By Jove, Nerdanel,” he cries, waving Turgon’s book—he must have purloined it—“the boy was reading Blake’s _A Poison Tree_!”

Uncle Fingolfin wheels on Athair so quickly that I think he means to strike him. I see, relieved, that his arms stay at his sides.

Maedhros and Grandfather and Uncle Finarfin all spring forward as if puppeteered by invisible strings.

Athair’s face, close to my uncle’s, does not lose its ghastly humor. I shudder despite myself, unable, otherwise, to breathe.

Low yet ringing, my uncle says, “You may treat me as you like—you always have. But make sport of my children while they suffer, and you will be sorry for it.”

“How,” Athair asks, terribly, eagerly quiet, “Shall I be _made_ to feel sorry?”

Uncle Fingolfin does not so much as scoff. When he speaks again, his voice is hard and measured enough that the words are stones. “What a question for a man to ask. Do you guard your gems of wit so dearly? You’d rather mock a hurt boy than reprimand your own—son.”

“Finish your true thought,” Athair spits. “Tell me what you think of my _son._”

“I would not insult a child,” my uncle says, “even to pain _you_.”


	9. Fingon

“Turgon, we shall take you to the best doctor in the city.”

Grandfather has been the only one to speak for the past half-hour. And, I think, the hour before that, during which we trekked back across the sand, and the road, all the way to our carriage. Our carriage had to be made ready, since the grooms at the hotel were not expecting us.

The silence from everyone else is because Father is brooding, Turgon is trying to contain himself, and Aredhel is terrified that Father will find out her role in the whole mess.

_I_ shouldn’t blame Turgon for telling all his story. He is the one who has to fear the onslaught of a temporary, yet terrifying, pox.

I hate myself, in these moments, while the carriage rolls along and Father stares stonily ahead. I hate myself because I am _not_ the best doctor in the city, and do not know what to do; because I stood silently by while Uncle Feanor insulted my family to Father’s face; and because, before we came here, I was hoping to gain Maedhros’s encouragement in regard to my future lectures—or, to be more precise, my plan never to attend those lectures again.

Yes, I was hoping to find the _gumption_ to spurn what I knew to be right.

For, I now see, I considered the duty-pangs I felt to Father to be cowardice, something my cousin could eloquently witch me out of. I always want to _persuaded_ to do wrong, I believe, and that is a very shameful weakness. Even more shameful is the fact that I would have enlisted my good cousin to help me.

_Dear God, _I vow. _I shall attend lectures all this next year, and I swear I won’t complain of them even once._

Perhaps I will never be the _best_ doctor in New York City, but it shan’t be for lack of trying.

One of the carriage wheels tumbles over a stone. Turgon yelps.

“My poor child,” Grandfather says earnestly.

_I would not insult a child,_ my father said. _Even to pain_ you.

Does he _want _to pain Uncle Feanor? He would be utterly justified—but I have never believed that of him. I sneak a glance at his face, as if I were ten years younger than I am, and the cause of all this trouble. I cannot read his expression.

Grandfather stepped in between my uncle and Father. He said that spirits were running high and it was likely the heat of the sun that plagued us. Once they stood down, he was very, very worried over Turgon. He assured us that we should all travel back together—earlier than planned.

This made Uncle Feanor lose the smug expression he had been touting about ever since we returned to camp. When last I saw him, he was glowering after us, with a hungry bent to his lean frame.

Why must it always be so? Why must life continue on with the dividing lines seeming to web cruelly between our families, even when I have snatched such moments of joy as I cherished last night, when my cousins and I lay upon the comforting sands?

I would curse my uncle, if I could; If cursing him did not mean cursing his sons also.

Even Father, in the heat of his anger, did not curse my cousins. I must remember that, and be grateful.

_July 29, 1848_

_New York City_

_Dear Maitimo,_

_I’m very vexed that I wasn’t able to see you one last time, before you traveled north some weeks ago. At least, when you receive this, it will be August—and that means less than a full month will remain until we are united again. I don’t mean to be selfish, since you have much to occupy you at home, but whenever the weather begins to turn crisp as an autumn-apple—goodness, don’t show Maglor that bald comparison—I am pleased to think of regaining your company. _

_I am late in writing this month because I wanted you especially to know that the rash on Turgon’s chest is not so very bad now. At first it was absolutely dreadful. It itched him awfully, and even though you are well aware of how often I quarrel with him, I admire his forbearance in not scratching. _

_Picking at scabs is not a very doctorly trait, I own, but it is one that I have had to fight to overcome._

_The blisters are nearly gone, now, and Doctor Olorin assures Father and Mother (and, more to the point, Turgon) that this has been a speedy recovery and one we should all be grateful for._

_If you were less generous a brother, I would request that you punch Celegorm squarely on the nose for me. As it is, I may do it myself one day if you don’t hold me back. But it is you, Maitimo. You are always there to hold me back._

_Someday, perhaps, we can laugh about this. I have been thinking a great deal about the story you told on our last night together—the one where Grandfather spoke to us about what sort of men we should be. _

_I like to think that we will be the kind of men, and the kind of family, that laughs more often than we weep or quarrel._

_You would smile to see such a naïve sentiment expressed so openly, were you here, and were I reading my thoughts aloud. Yet, as it is, you are able to read them quietly to yourself, in my dreadful penmanship. And perhaps, miles away as you are, you are thinking, _Fingon, did you not just say, you always quarrel with your own brother.

_Well, cousin. I shall strive to be better. _

_Let the bitterness I leave unspoken teach me that, and teach it well._

_Devotedly,_

_Fingon _

_P.S. The bad penmanship is not very doctorly either, is it? Someday, I hope either mine improves, or doctors' generally decreases. _


End file.
